A Different Sort of Game
by BigMamaKat
Summary: I'm terrible at summaries & don't know what to put. Basically, during a drunken night a woman new to London turns to Sherlock Holmes to help solve a lifelong trauma. Though there are juicy bits you may not want to miss.. Sherlock/OC Very much Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

There's a wonderful feeling tequila gives you when you drink the right amount of the right kind. The sensation of soaring never leaves you through all your elated sighs and incessant giggling. Warmth seems your flow through making your body feel boundless and vibrant. It's evident in every step you take as your feet overlap causing your hips to protrude from their natural stance, as if you're traipsing down a runway. It's a constant hum that vibrates through you and inevitably becomes evident to everyone around you as you beam with liquid confidence.

This sweet spot, the one that can turn any ordinary or terrible night into a form of self celebration, can only truly be found in ranges between cheapest-of-cheap and slightly-over-the-line-expensive bottles, five shots after "I think I might be starting to feel something" and two shots before "Gee, that seems like a good idea" (which is never a good idea whilst drinking).

Sophie Midler is blissfully unaware of this subtle rule. Newly arrived in London she sits in a pub, alone on the twenty-fifth birthday, eying a crumpled piece of paper clutched carefully in her hand. This carefree buoyant sweet spot is what she hopes for as she closes her eyes tight and takes back another shot of tequila. Her attention caught suddenly by the couple sitting next to her.

"Honestly, who wears deer hunters these days?" One woman giggles.

"I think my grandfather still has one." Her girlfriend replied. "Though I always imagined private detectives walking around with a giant spy glass and a pipe. And definitely more suave." She snorted into her drink and her girlfriend stifled a drunken giggle.

"How would you know if he's suave or not you can't tell that by looking at his portrait!"

"No, I met him! Didn't I tell you? At the office yesterday he interrogated everyone on my level over some scandal or other. Well, interrogated, more like called out! If he's right then nearly half of my office has some form of addiction while the other half are off having affairs. Daft.."

"Did he call you out?"

"..he might have." She mumbled.

"Then maybe this detective isn't so daft after all!"

"He-"

"S'rry!" Sophie interrupted ungracefully, standing and putting her hand on one woman's shoulder for support attempting to act as sober as possible. "Did you say something about a detective?" Both women nodded silently. "Do you know where his officeice? I mean, _is_?"

"I don't know about an office, love, but most people find him over on Baker Street. 221B."

"Than you." Sophie pushed herself off the woman and out the door slowly feeling the warmth of the tequila making it's way down her body and towards her toes, her walk becoming a strut and she made her way towards a free taxi.

The taxi ride from the pub to 221B wasn't that long but it was long enough for her body to take the next step. The tequila had turned to liquid fire inside her, every cell of her body deliciously burning at every movement. The sensation of her shirt dragging across her breasts as she turned had her instantly and painfully aroused. Her hand numbly began to claw at the collar of her shirt as her back arched forward. Biting her lip to keep from moaning she quickly came to her senses enough to pay the driver and run up to the door.

She lifted her hand to knock when she immediately noticed the door was ajar and pushed it open without a second thought. It wasn't difficult to figure out which one was the detectives apartment after that. The one up the stairs with the door wide open and the seemingly organized clutter all about.

Once again inviting herself in, drunkenly singing a loud "helloooo?" as she entered, she went straight to perusing the wall of books.

"Anybody home?" she called out, picking up some books to examine, tracing the binding of others, feeling their texture with her fingertips. Slowly she made her way to the mantel over the fire, poking at boxes and other odd objects, getting lost in the sensations under the fingers. Her skin began to burn again, her nipples painfully yet deliciously hard, each step making her feel bold and sensual.

Scanning the apartment quickly she sat in the closest chair in the front of the fire, facing the kitchen. The crumpled piece of paper falling unnoticed to the floor, she moved her hand into her bra, a sigh of contentment falling from her lips as she caressed herself. Quickly she moved her other hand into her jeans, pushing aside the lace material of her panties to finally quench the arousal that had been building the last hour. Her breath came in short gasps as she worked her fingers, her free hand roaming across her body, pinching and pulling her aching skin. Making no attempt to quiet her cries as she reached her release, her body shuddering and curling further into the chair. Through the accompanying relaxation the exhaustion of the day crept, her eyes falling heavy as the chair seemed to be more and more comfortable.

"I just need a nap.." She thought. "Seems like a good idea."


	2. Chapter 2

Tap.

"Sherlock, stop that." A voice hissed, notably embarrassed.

Tap.

A dull vibration made it's way through Sophie's body up her leg from her still resonating foot.

"_Sherlock_."

"Well, she's in my chair." Another snapped back, it's deep baritone laced with irritation and impatience.

Tap.

Another vibration hummed through her cells with considerably more force than the previous moving into her already pounding head. Sophie moved slowly through the aches caused by her awkward sleeping position, creeping her eyes open against the offensive morning light as she went.

"This is why you don't leave the doors open, John. It lets in the strays." The baritone said, his eyes never leaving Sophie. Sophie tried to focus her blurry vision on the men in the room. The man being addressed as John was standing in the kitchen, a steaming cuppa in his hand, a flabbergasted expression aimed at the back of the mans head.

"Wh-" He choked on his words. "You said your life depended on it! That it was an emergency! How was I supposed to know you were too busy thinking to reach the coffee pot?"

"You could have at least closed the front door properly y-"

"Emotional manipulation? Really?" Sophie winced at the hoarse sound of her own voice. "Sorry could-" Her voice began to cut out. "Water?" She mimed a glass, relieved when John quickly fulfilled her request. She nodded her appreciation as she threw back the water letting out a small groan of satisfaction at the sensation of the water cooling her throat. A sudden panic ripped through her and she nearly dropped the glass as she realized her crumpled paper was no longer clutched in her hand. Dropping the glass on the nearby table she frantically searched her clothing and the chair before getting on her hands and knees to search the surrounding floor, pausing as she heard the unmistakable sound of paper behind smoothed flat. Sophie slowly turned upwards and stared at Sherlock's hands, now holding onto her once balled up possession.

"He's not a poet but that's hardly a crime worthy of my services." He drawled out in a bored voice. He turned towards John who was now looking at him with a confused expression. He gestured towards the paper before handing it down to the still silent Sophie. "Happy birthday, bunny. Love, DM" he quoted. "And she's come to London after her ex-lover upon receiving this note and taking it to mean he wants her back. After realizing this was not the case she came here in a drunken stupor to ask a detective just what she missed and what went wrong." A mocking pout on his lips.

Sophie got up slowly, her body suddenly numb, folding the paper gingerly and placing it in her pocket. As she moved away from the chair the detective brushed off the seat before sitting on it with a triumphant gloating expression.

"I heard women talking in the bar last night. They said you were good. A bit of a prat, but a genius." He nodded as if accepting praise though as Sophie continued to speak a hard look took over his face. "Seems like I wasn't the only drunk last night."

Sophie retreated slightly as he jumped up from his chair and circled her once before standing a breath away from her, addressing her without his eyes leaving hers.

"You were a chain smoker for a small number of years, not because you were addicted to the nicotine but because of the shield it gave you in social situations. You quit at most five years ago but you still get cravings, not for the smoking but to ease the bouts of social anxiety that still hit you. Same goes for the drinking. Something traumatic happened in your youth leading you to an eventual phase of self-harm and alcohol. Eventually getting a grasp on yourself you quit both cold turkey, that is until yesterday when you received this note. You've already started drinking and once you leave here you'll head straight for the nearest pack of cigarettes. This is your first time in London and you're here alone, probably with no one knowing you're here as it was a sudden decision to leave. You have no bags, no purse, only a pocket with a few notes and your passport. You don't have a hotel key meaning you never bothered to find one. You got off the plane, realized this note wasn't what you thought it was, found the first pub you could find, and proceeded to here."

He let the silence fall and he stared intently into her eyes waiting for her reaction. Her breath hitched and she tore away from his piercing gaze.

"Maybe they weren't so drunk after all."

He turned on the spot and went back to his chair.

"You're right. I'm a twenty-five year old with no friends and a very distant family. Not a single one of them know that I'm here. I grabbed my passport and took the next flight here because I was following the stamp on the envelope it came in. I really hope I don't start smoking again but since you've been right about everything else it kind of feels like I'm setting myself against fate saying that. Except.." His ears seemed to perk, sensing a challenge in the air. "Why do you say this letter is from a man?"

"The handwriting, obviously." She shrugged as if to say '_not too obvious_'. "I guarantee you that was written by a man. Left handed. Of mediocre intelligence." He jumped up once again and turned to the mantel over the fire, his hands fidgeting with the odds and ends placed there. "Question is, why do you think it's not?"

"_D.M._ Dorothy Midler. My older sister. She disappeared when I was young and was never heard from again so they presumed her dead and closed the case. She used to call me bunny. She was the only one that ever did, the only one that knew about that name.." Her throat clenched as she fought for control over the memories that now flooded her mind.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man before her said before gesturing to his considerably shorter blonde companion. "Dr John Watson."

"We'll take your case."


End file.
